I told myself that I wouldn't continue to write here after Jessie died and although I want to hold to that promise, I swear, I can see her waving at me as if to say "Really? Come on Yvette, why would you let something like that stop you..." It's not that, honestly, it doesn't even remotely feel as though I am breaking the promise that I made to myself. She would want me to keep on writing, so, I make no promises Jessie, to you or to myself. But, I am working on another project, one that won't allow me to continue to write in this free-form forum for much longer. Then again, what the hell do I know about anything? Stop laughing Jessie...
Death has not been an integral part of my life, not yet anyway; I know it's coming, that it has already begun to seep its gnarled claws into the periphery of my somewhat complacent existence. My grandparents have passed, our family dog, relatives, distant friends, sadly, a child or two of loved ones. But death has spared me any type of real grief until this year, just a few months ago when he claimed Jessie. Thinking of her makes me sad. Thinking of her brings me pain and I feel that empty hole open itself up again. Thinking of her makes me feel fear and isolation, loneliness, suffering and yet, ironically, every single time that I picture her face, she is smiling. And then I smile. I can imagine her memorial service and I can feel the tears welling up, but when I actually think of her face, her eyes are lit up and she's wearing her glasses, looking at me, happy to see me, to chat for a minute, to laugh at something stupid that I said or did.
When Jake graduated from high school last week, I thought of her, especially when he walked down the track toward the stage. I walked that path and Jessie did before me. I missed her a lot that day. But I know that she was smiling, laughing at all of the joy, singing the alma mater along with us, congratulating Jake in her own way. Love has no structure, no definitive shape, no limits. I miss you Jessie. Keep reading... there is more to come.
I thought that I was being rather indulgent today when I actually sat outside, in the sun, to read for two hours. I almost felt guilty. How pathetic is that? My life has become such a constant stream of work, kids, obligations, work, kids, obligations... that I felt guilty for reading? Pause... okay, I had to slap my own face for such an asinine application of guilt to an activity that I could, hypothetically write off as work... nonetheless, I lay here now, unable to sleep, thinking about life and death, babies, movies, chocolate, yes, chocolate, always, new friends, places, endeavors, change...
I continue to search for meaning in the trivial, but, again, somewhat ironically I suppose, the trivial doesn't really interest me. The big, loud, kick you in the ass moments interest me and I have lived my life from one to the next, leaping, arms akimbo, head thrown back, eyes closed, relishing in the newness of whatever was about to take place: a job, a baby, a wedding, a vacation. And then, as with everything else, the newness began to wear off and I felt deflated, bored, uninterested, sometimes for a short moment, sometimes for months, but then, as if the Fates were fast weaving, another momentous occasion or job interview or child's milestone revealed itself and I was in mid air yet again... Recently, those moments have become fewer and further between. I am always telling my students to avoid cliches in their writing and here I am using them. At the very least I recognize that I am doing it, doesn't help though. If I had any common sense, I would edit this before hitting publish, but, I won't because I'm already getting distracted and Hotel California just came on my playlist and it is making me sleepy. Makes me think of my parents and the 70's, even though I was just a kid growing up then, I remember hearing this song and wondering what the hell it was all about... but, famously, I digress...
I like to think that there is something new around every door jamb, out every front door, at every stoplight, in every greeting, birthday card, first day of school. I try to imagine that life is one big pencil box, filled with all of my favorite things, the worn and loved, the decorated, the loaned or borrowed pieces, the gifts, the favorites that I keep only for myself. Life is a pencil box, when opened, a tool kit to help you do anything that you want to, from the simplest to the most complex task; when closed, it is a safe harbor, padded, protective of those same tools, waiting for an opportune time to once again contribute, to be utilized. I may use that analogy in summer school this term. We'll see. It really depends on my mood that day.
I turned a new corner, well, I turned back onto a corner that I had driven away from long ago, but to which I recently returned, only this time, with new faces, new stories and a new experience that is already leaving its very specific and indelible impression upon my well being. I have thought of myself as resilient, strong, capable, smart and I have been, on more than one occasion, able to prove those things. But this past 5 weeks has called into question everything that I thought that I was capable of, or maybe once was, but that has subtly, slightly shifted. The change isn't noticeable unless you knew me before, or, if I make it clear that a change has taken place, but, for the first time EVER in my entire life, I have felt the impact of taking on a challenge for which I was perhaps unprepared. I am chipping away at it and I will find my footing eventually, but this experience has shaken me to the core because it calls into question every quality, every characteristic, that I have felt though the years, has made me who I am. I mean, seriously, when you reach that point in your life where you know who you are, what you want and you are living the life you carved out for yourself and all of those ideals are based upon the qualities that have held you together as a woman, an employee, a mother, a wife, when those qualities are put to the test, well, it's more than disquieting, it's frustrating and, on some level for me, it's a sign that I need to acknowledge my age. I know, people say, "You are only as old as you feel" and "40 is the new 30" and, well, fuck those people. What the hell do they know about how I feel after 8 hours of work or after running 26 miles? How do those idiots who come at us with cliche ridden fodder that attempts to pass itself off as "psychology" know how we feel, or, more precisely, how I feel?
I've said it, I've written about it. I don't mind aging and I don't mind letting go of the trivial aspects of youth that were once so violently important to me, sometimes clouding my judgement and those that led me to make bad decisions, mistakes, to hurt others, to lose money, friends, lovers, jobs... but, as these things do begin to happen, hopefully slower than not, I hope I can hold on to what does matter, like my 18 year old son who just walked in the door at 1:29 to beat his 1:30 curfew. Yes, he lives at home so he has a curfew. Stop shaking your heads. So, he just came in, hugged me, told me he loved me and said that he was going to get an Oreo McFlurry and "Do you want one Mom?" Sheesh, it's 1:30 in the morning Jake, of COURSE I want one. Jessie is smiling again at that one.
I knew that this one wasn't going to go in any particular direction, but it feels really good to write again in this format. I like stream of consciousness writing because I don't feel the need to self correct or edit. I just count to three and I go... It's funny, but just interacting with the kid made me feel less... somber? I was feeling heavy and sad when I started typing a few minutes ago and I feel, well, lighter now. One of the many benefits of having positive interactions with the offspring I guess. I suppose that I was trying to work out the difficulties that I'm having by writing them out. When I run, I work them out in my head, telling myself stories and reliving moments of pure joy and sadness. I know it's time to run another marathon. I can feel it calling to me. I've been doing short runs, 1-3 miles a few times a week, but, the challenge beckons... and I know, for a fact, that by training for one, that alone will be enough to bolster the platform that houses my doubts, that will be enough to tip that platform just enough to let a few of the doubts slip off, and, at the end of the training, I will stomp on that mother fucking platform, doubts splayed helplessly beneath it... I can't help it. Using profanity makes me feel better. You know that, I know that, well all know that.
I don't mind having a torn meniscus or having to stretch twice as long before I run. I don't mind having to take more vitamins than ever before or using Crest Whitestrips. I don't mind that my knees, toes and back crack when I get out of bed in the morning or that I sometimes hurt my neck because I sleep too violently?! I don't even mind that just one shot of tequila makes me tipsy or that I like the little streaks of gray that are becoming more and more visible around my temples. I really don't mind having a son in college, one in high school and one in elementary school and I don't think I will ever mind the smile wrinkles on my face that clearly come from my Dad. I do, however, mind the notion that people see me differently than I see myself. I am the same on the inside, but, at 46, that "inside" is richer, filled with experience and depth, pain, love and vast quantities of chocolate.
I was going to ask Jessie if that sufficed for a return to the page, but Jake just came in. No McFlurry. A Hershey's bar offered as a substitute. I took it, looked at it, thanked him as he said goodnight and walked out. But I'm not eating it. I accept no substitutions, no matter how small, only the real thing will suffice. Ever. Peace...
